Death has never felt so soft,
As a hush upon the face,
A kiss upon the back
Of the mind,
A lulling numbness,
To calm dis-ease,
And silence.
Death has never sounded so soft,
As the fourth movement
Of a composer
Who wrote to drink,
And drank to write
Away his loathe
Of self and life.
Death, I say, has never tasted so fine,
As a glorious banquet
To end the...
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